Birthday Blues
by JustlikeWater
Summary: In which Dean turns 30 and a premature midlife crisis ensues. Dean/Castiel. Romance/fluff/humor


**A/N: I don't know why, but in my head canon Dean totally freaks about turning the big three-oh. Hope you like this birthday fluff, y'all! Don't forget to give some fabulous feedback! :)**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>Call it a midlife crisis, or a random overproduction of estrogen, but when Dean woke up on his thirtieth birthday and glanced at Sam pulling a T-shirt over his fit, twenty-something year old body, and then lifted the covers to examine his own less-than-rock-solid physique, he felt a huge surge of—dear god—<em>insecurity.<em>

It was then that he realized—with no small amount of horror—that he had finally peaked.

After spending at least fifteen of his thirty years with a great bod, a surplus of confidence, and abs that would make any girl weak in the knees, Dean had _finally _stagnated. He supposed it was only inevitable; like all things, his hotness was bound to peter out eventually.

What was that quote by that Frost guy? Oh yeah—_nothing gold can stay._

Dean sighed.

He briefly entertained the notion of getting out of bed, but then decided it was a pointless endeavor; he'd probably end up finding a grey hair or breaking his freaking hip, or something.

"Happy Birthday, Dean!" his youthful, untroubled brother chimed.

"What's so happy about it?" Dean said to the ceiling.

"Well, you're thirty now! The big three-oh! How do ya feel?"

Dean grabbed a pillow and shoved it over his face. "Mmf mm."

"Come again?"

"Like _shit,"_ he repeated bitterly.

Sam, refusing to be deterred by Dean's bad mood, snatched the pillow away from him and grinned brightly. "Trust me, that'll change. Cas and I are taking you out for burgers later, and we've already picked out your birthday cake. It's double chocolate, your favorite!"

On any other day, that would've probably made Dean water at the mouth; at the moment, however, he could only imagine his waist size increasing with every delicious, calorie-packed bite.

"You _would_ pick that, wouldn't you, Sam?" Dean snapped accusingly. "With your zero percent body fat and wash board abs!" He grabbed the pillow back and crushed it over his face, groaning loudly in agony. "I'll be lucky to make it to next week before my love handles start setting in."

Even though he couldn't see him, Dean could practically feel Sam's exasperated expression burning a hole through the pillow. "Dean."

"Mmf?"

"How about you put an end to this pity party, get dressed, and come with me to go pick up the cake?"

"Mm."

"Come on, man."

"Mmf. Mm Mmmf Mm."

"Dude!" Sam tore the pillow away and raised his eyebrows expectantly. "Come again?"

"I said: 'no. I'm not doing that'."

"And why not?"

"Can't you just let me wallow in peace? Is that so much to ask for?" Dean buried his head in the mattress and released yet another dramatic groan.

Sam, apparently tired of Dean's less-than-charming antics, finally threw his hands up in defeat. "Fine, man. Whatever, just chill here while I pick up the cake. When I get back, we'll call Cas and then head to the burger joint, alright?"

_"__Whatever." _

_. . . _

The moment Sam left, Dean stripped down to his shorts and planted himself before the mirror for inspection—if he was going to degenerate to some pathetic, pudgy civilian then he would damn well make sure that he knew his weak points in advance. He spent the next ten minutes pinching and prodding every inch of his pitiful body, stopping every now and then to frown despondently at his reflection.

Then, Dean heard that unmistakable flutter of wings and realized he had about one second of privacy left before a certain blue-eyed someone made his appearance. Maybe he should have found it more troublesome when Cas soundlessly popped up behind him and rumbled "Hello, Dean," in that gravelly voice of his, completely unaware that startling a guy in his underwear was inappropriate as hell, but for some reason Dean couldn't summon any annoyance. He couldn't even force himself to lecture Cas on personal space or appropriate timing.

Instead he mumbled "Hey, Cas" and went back to his self-inspection.

"Happy Birthday, Dean," Castiel beamed. He glanced around the motel room, noticing Sam's absence. "I see I have arrived earlier than was anticipated for our celebration later on. I understand that you are preoccupied, but would you mind if I 'hung out' until then?" The angel tilted his head to the right and looked so hopeful that Dean found he couldn't say no. Besides, it wasn't as if what he was doing required solitude, and Castiel had seen him down to his boxers on numerous occasions already—because, again, the guy did not understand the meaning of privacy—so this whole arrangement was nothing new.

"Yeah, sure. While you're here, you might as well look into some potential cases," he intoned, only half interested in the prospect of a new hunt.

Castiel's eyes brightened and he nodded obediently, lowering himself into a chair at the motel room's small table. He flipped open Sam's laptop and began typing.

Dean, meanwhile, went back to what he was doing. He turned before the mirror, examining the soft roll puffing out at the bottom of his abdomen. If he were in a saner state of mind, he might have recognized that it really wasn't anything to worry about; when one put his arms, upper abdominal region, thighs, and calves into consideration, that pinchful of plump flesh was pretty inconsequential. However, as it was, Dean's self-perception was thrown so far off the deep end that he would have needed a submarine to retrieve it.

He took a deep breath and then asked, "Cas, give it to me straight: am I fat?"

Cas glanced up from Sam's laptop. "No, Dean," he assured. Then with a completely sincere 'I mean every word I'm about to say' look, he followed up with, "You're _curvy_."

In the following moment, Dean dropped his jaw so hard that it was a marvel it didn't unhinge altogether and clatter to the floor. Cas seemed sort of surprised by his reaction, but Dean felt that it was completely warranted, because, seriously; _what the hell?_

Looking like a deer in headlights, Cas hastened to clarify. "In a magazine I read once, it said that if your partner asks if they are fat, you are supposed to tell them that they are curvy in 'all the right places'."

"In a magazine," Dean repeated.

"Yes; _Cosmos,_ I believe," Cas supplied eagerly. "It was very informative."

This was it. This was truly the pinnacle of Dean's depressing life; here he was, staring at his squishy stomach, stripped of both his clothes and pride, while Cas attempted to placate him like an insecure girlfriend.

There were a lot of things Dean could have replied with—at least ten of them being about no guy wanting to be called 'curvy'—but for some reason the first thing to trip out of his mouth was: "Cas, we aren't partners, that doesn't apply to us."

"But we are partners, Dean," Cas insisted. "We work together."

"Right—but the magazine was referring to a different kind of partner. I'm not your, uh, significant other."

"I think you are significant, Dean."

Dean's face grew hot and he suddenly found himself wishing he had a shirt on. Or pants. Preferably both. "Partners as in _lovers_, Cas. You know; that boyfriend-girlfriend crap. That's who, uh, _Cosmos_ was referring to. Not friends."

Cas considered this for a moment, then inquired, "So the advice is not applicable to our situation?"

"Uh, no." _Not one freaking bit._ Dean did not want to be called _curvy._

Cas furrowed his brow, visibly perplexed. "But I was under the impression that 'curvy' was a universal compliment? Wouldn't a lover and friend alike enjoy a comment like that?"

"Well, no, not necessarily," Dean began awkwardly. "Girls like to be called pretty, beautiful, curvy: feminine things. Guys like to be complimented on their—I don't know—muscles, I guess? They like to be called handsome or hot. Not curvy."

After a moment of consideration, Castiel nodded, a look of comprehension dawning on his face. "Yes, I understand now, Dean. Thank you for explaining."

"Uh, sure, no problem, man." God dammit where the hell did he put his shirt?

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Cas?"

Cas smiled encouragingly—or at least the closest approximation that the angel could manage—and said, "You're not fat, you are very hot and you have exceptional muscles."

Of course it was right in the middle of that sentence that Sam decided to show up, and judging by the shit-eating grin that immediately lit up his features, he'd just heard every word. "Yeah, Dean, _exceptional_," Sam-the-smartass interjected, leaning into the doorframe with that stupid grin practically tattooed across his face. "So, guys, what did I miss? Apparently a lot, since, Dean, you're half naked and, Cas, you're currently stoking his ego. Soothing some pre-banging jitters, perhaps?"

_"__Sam!" _Dean hissed, clenching his hands into fists to suppress the urge to start throwing punches.

"We are not about to engage in coitus," Cas replied calmly, sounding a little bemused. "But if we were I'm sure Dean would not have any 'jitters', as you called them, since he is quite experienced in most areas of sex."

"Cas!" Dean cried, sounding even more scandalized. God, what was up with everyone in the bunker talking about his freaking sex life all of a sudden?

"What? I thought your sexual prowess was widely known? Surely Sam knows of all the people you've engaged with thus far."

"Prowess?" Sam sputtered, choking on a laugh. "God. I'm really glad I chose right now to walk in guys, this is just what my day needed."

"Shut your cakehole, will you?" Dean snapped, snatching his shirt from the floor and angrily tugging it on. Unfortunately, his pants were currently MIA, so unless he wanted to abandon this conversation—and let Sam think he won—to go on a scavenger hunt, he'd just have to continue this whole interaction in his boxers.

Oh well; wouldn't be the first time he'd argued with someone in his underwear.

Sam pulled out a chair and sat next to Cas, who had now completely abandoned his typing in favor of staring between the two brothers with a curious expression. Sam sighed. "Listen, man, I get it; you're thirty years old now, you feel old—which you aren't, by the way—and you're going through some, I don't know, early midlife crisis or something. But, there's no need to freak out, alright? Just because you're out of the twenties-territory doesn't mean you're gonna start sprouting grey hair and growing a pot belly. And besides: you still got it! As your brother, I can truthfully say that you could still totally pass for a twenty-something year old. Right, Cas?"

Cas turned his eyes to Dean and nodded solemnly in agreement. "Yes, Dean. You are just as beautiful as the day I raised you from hell and reconstructed your body, both in mind and soul."

The room went dead silent and both brothers turned to the angel with expressions varying from mortified to stunned. Speaking of being raised from hell, Dean was certain that his face was currently burning hotter than any damn inferno they had down there.

Dean fidgeted, Cas continued staring adoringly, and Sam seemed to be looking anywhere but at the two of them. Eventually, the universe took pity and a car alarm outside the motel started going off, loud and jarring and oh-so welcome as a distraction. Sam coughed. "Uh, yeah. Right."

Cas, of course, didn't seem to understand the awkwardness of the situation and placidly rose from his chair, an easy smile on his face. "Shall we take Dean to get burgers now, Sam?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Let's go."

. . .

In the diner, the three of them sat in a booth, each wearing a ridiculous cardboard party hat with elastic string—thanks to Cas, who brought them after 'researching traditional birthday practices'. Dean would've said no, but Cas had just looked so damn pleased with himself that refusing him would have been like kicking a happy puppy.

So, Dean snapped on the stupid cone and faked a grin like the good friend that he was.

In truth, the 'celebration' wasn't all bad, though; the burger he ordered was delicious and practically dripping with grease, and his guilt only prevented him from eating half of it, and Sam and Cas maintained a reasonably amusing stream of conversation despite Dean's lack of input.

It went along the lines of something like….

"Sam, why are there so many packets of sugar in this container? There are at least seven different brands here, yet they all claim to be the 'best'. How do I know which brand is superior, should I test them all and see?" Cas had asked, as soon as a cup of coffee was placed before him.

Sam snorted and tore open a packet of Splenda over his cup of decaf. "That's the beauty of humanity, Cas: choices. Pick any of them, they're all more or less the same thing."

Cas's eyes widened at the prospect of so many options, and he turned to Dean in wonder. "Dean, which would you recommend?"

Despite the fact that his miserable mood was still hovering over him like a raincloud, he couldn't help but smile at the angel's eagerness. "Sweet N' Low is a personal favorite of mine, but Sugar in the Raw isn't bad either."

"Sweet and Low, it is," Castiel decided earnestly. "Thank you, Dean."

Even though Dean was endlessly thankful for having his best friend and his brother beside him, he couldn't help the dark mood festering within him like a virus. He didn't want to be miserable—obviously—but it felt nearly impossible to suppress the gloomy feelings that arose whenever he thought about his waning physique, increasing age, and, worst of all, the fact that after thirty years he had still yet to find someone. At this point, most people—even other hunters—had found a significant other to spend their life with, whether it was legitimized by a ring or by a simple promise. Dean had somehow managed to sleep through half the country without ever sharing a sincere moment with another person, and that thought made him sad as freaking hell.

For some reason, Castiel's face floated through his mind as he waded his way through these troubling thoughts—all bright, blue eyes and scruffy hair—and it made him feel infinitesimally better, though he wasn't sure why that was.

"Dean what do you think?" Cas asked from beside him, his eyebrows high on his forehead.

Dean blinked and realized that he'd been zoning out for the past few minutes, missing whatever Castiel was referring to. "What do I think of what?"

"Is ketchup a better condiment than mustard?"

Dean's lips ticked up in amusement, and he took his time explaining his answer while Cas listened to every word with rapt attention. Things went like this for a while; Cas asking the brothers about some human quirk or another and then pouring all of his focus into Dean's response, as if Dean possessed the answers to the universe.

Eventually, Sam looked between the two of them, quirked a secretive smile, then placed his fork down on the table. "Alright, I'm going to leave you guys to it, I have other, uh, stuff to do. Cases, research, monster things, yadda yadda, you get the point." He slid out of the booth and stood up, stretching his long arms over his head. He then moved over to their bench and grabbed Dean's face, smacking a loud kiss against the top of his head. "Happy Birthday, big bro," he said with a cheeky grin. He straightened up and dropped a few bills on the table. "Cake's on me. See you guys later!"

Dean watched him depart, and was just about to say something to Cas, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Strangely, it was from Sam, who'd left barely thirty seconds ago.

**_Sorry I had 2 leave so fast. The UST & puppy eyes were making me suffocate. Do something about it! TTYL. SW_**

Dean frowned at the screen in confusion, because he had no idea what the hell "UST" was supposed to stand for. Whatever. He pocketed his phone and, thanks to a sudden burst of carelessness—or maybe courage—leaned heavily into the angel's side, tiredly allowing his head to fall against Cas's. At first, Castiel seemed unsure of what to do, but after a moment passed and Dean made it clear he had no intention of moving, Cas snuggled closer and hummed in contentment.

Dean felt stupid for asking, but Sam wasn't there and the diner was practically deserted aside from a few lingering patrons, and the question had been burning a hole in his brain all afternoon. "Cas, what you said earlier…do you really think that?"

"What are you referring to, Dean?"

His face grew hot and uncomfortable, and he felt about two inches tall as he asked, "Do you really think I'm—beautiful?"

Cas replied without a second of hesitation, an easy smile adorning his features. "Of course, Dean. The moment I held your soul and carried you from hell, I knew that you possessed a beauty that I could neither understand nor replicate. You are righteous, kind-hearted, strong, loyal, brave, clever—and all of these things comprise your existence, without individually defining it. You are unique and I am endlessly fortune to have met you."

Dean allowed the words to wash over him, warm and genuine and achingly honest. "Wow," he mumbled into the angel's hair, his heart practically throbbing from being so damn _full_. "That's—thank you, Cas. Thanks."

Castiel moved his head so that Dean was forced to sit straight up and face him, and the angel stared back at him with adoration shining in his eyes like fire, fierce and unyielding. "Dean, there is no need to fear age. I am thousands upon thousands of years old, and I can tell you that youth and goodness will shine from your being for the rest of your existence, no matter what your age."

Those unfathomable blue eyes bore into him, gentle and warm as a flickering flame. "Understand?"

Dean nodded, numb and tingly with happiness, all of his worries from earlier melting away. In fact, in retrospect, they seemed downright foolish. "Yeah, I understand," he said hoarsely.

Castiel leaned in and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to Dean's cheek, then his eyebrow, then his forehead and his chin, and by the time he'd reached Dean's nose, Dean couldn't help but smile.

"Now," the angel said, as he found Dean's hand underneath the table and held on. "Would you like a piece of cake now?"

At those words, his appetite magically made its grand appearance for the first time today. "_God,_ yes."

So they ate cake—double chocolate was the freaking _best, _hands down—and talked about why there were so many types of forks, and how salt and sugar looked alike but tasted very different, and why Led Zeppelin was obviously better than Queen (which, admittedly, was mostly one-sided), while Cas's eyes smiled and Dean found himself unable to remove his grin.

After an especially huge bite of cake, Castiel leaned in and pecked the icing right off Dean's lips. "Happy Birthday, Dean."

"It is, isn't it?" Because, suddenly, it seemed like thirty was going to be the best year of his life.

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><p><strong>AN: So, what did you guys thinks? Let me know in the comments, you lovely people you! **

**Thanks for reading *hugs and kisses for all* **

**Until next time, darlings! **

**X0X0 justlikewater **


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